


Credit

by LokisGirl



Category: Metallica
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Spit As Lube
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-29
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-03-15 14:21:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29065746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LokisGirl/pseuds/LokisGirl
Summary: James doesn't respect Jason. When he catches James in a compromising position, Jason gets his revenge.
Relationships: James Hetfield/Jason Newsted
Comments: 2
Kudos: 13





	Credit

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted elsewhere 2013-ish. Apparently I didn't really have a good grasp of the paramount importance of lube back in the day. Very sorry if anyone's upset by that. I

James strolled into the studio, his commanding presence settling over the room like a veil of anticipation. Even Bob turned from the mixing board, and he’d had his back to the door and headphones on, deep in thought about Lars’ drum mix. How I could ever hope to keep my eyes off him? James is an alpha male through and through. Sometimes I wish I could be that way, but deep inside I’m still a goofy kid, a puppy not a wolf. The predatory aura James has would never suit me, although I can see how it has distinct advantages.

Take now, for instance. James has been here all of ten seconds, and we’re all expected to jump on whatever he wants to do, even though the rest of us started the session hours ago. He doesn’t care what we’ve worked on already; just what he thinks should be happening. That’s kind of an unfair assessment; I get that he’s going through a lot with his rehab and whatever psychobabble bullshit his therapist is making him do, but still, he does derail the whole day when he comes in late like this. 

Man, he’s wearing that ancient t-shirt from back when I first met him. The one that just says “Fuck Off” in big white block letters. I’m surprised he still has it.

“Hey man. Are you making a statement today?” I say by way of greeting, one eyebrow cocked inquisitively.

James crinkles a smile my way. He’s getting a few wrinkles, but they suit him. Am I staring? I read the shirt again, just to avoid meeting his gaze. “Nah, I went through some boxes of stuff from the attic with my therapist this morning. I was hoping he’d take the hint,” James laughed wryly.

“He gets paid to make you uncomfortable. That’s how it works,” Lars supplied helpfully from behind the drums. “Or at the very least, that’s how feels to me.” 

I rolled my eyes. One thing I’m sure of is that I will never be caught dead in therapy! All this talking about band problems with outsiders is ridiculous. I know James has problems, particularly with Lars and me. What I don’t know is why he won’t talk to me about it directly. He’s always been more than willing to call me an asshole to my face, so he could obviously tell me why I’m an ass if he really wanted to. He just won’t. 

James nodded at Lars. “It’s a bit like having your skin sandblasted off. By noon, I just want the friggin’ guy to piss off and leave me alone!” James spits his words, and the temperature in the room goes up a few degrees. It’s odd, how James’ emotions always seem to influence the whole environment. Makes him a great front man and a lousy companion. It’s hard to know what you’re really feeling yourself when he’s got such a pull. James “The Undertow” Hetfield: it’s my secret name for him, and he’ll never know. James cracks his knuckles, and I watch the muscles in his forearms stretch under his skin. The golden hairs on his arm catch the light. I realize I’m still looking at him, have been for the whole conversation, and grimace at myself for being so transfixed.

James notices my expression. “C’mon Jase, you know I only do that when I’m getting down to business. Cracking them once a day isn’t going to give me arthritis for chrissakes.” 

I run a hand through my hair and shake my head. “Whatever. Let’s just get on with it, ok?” Picking out the chord progression Lars, Kirk and I were working on before the Undertow arrived, I try to gather my thoughts. I put my head down, using my hair to block out the room. Lars joins in as I get to the main riff. The music chugs like a freight train- this song is going to be fun to play live! I start to tap my foot, lost in the low end. Lars picks up the tempo, and I’m on my feet. I flip my hair back just in time to see Lars is actually headbanging. At the end of what we’ve got so far, we’re having so much fun that we simply start again without a pause. I’m facing Lars now, my back to the rest of the room, just rocking out like we do when it’s just the two of us. My fingers fly over the strings on my bass. I’m not even thinking about what I’m playing any more, the music just flowing out. The energy is high; Lars and I feeding off one another, and when Kirk jumps in with a completely different guitar line than the one he’d been playing before it clicks right in. I can’t see him, but I can feel from the ambience that he’s right there with us. I simplify my line to make room for him to solo, excited to hear what he comes up with. He rips a fast, complicated run. I turn to watch him and my jaw drops. It’s not Kirk. James stands there with Kirk’s guitar in his hands, head thrown back, just thrashing it out. His throat’s exposed, and somehow that’s an erotic jolt to my system. I start to play again, this time fitting myself in the spaces open in James’ riff. We’re speeding up, creating a groove. I feel like there’s fireworks in the back of my brain. Heat rolls off James; he always seems much taller than he really is, but right now, blistering that fret board, he looks about ten feet tall. And bulletproof. Power radiates from him, sweeping us along with his lead. James pauses at the end of his riff, and I take a breath, plunging back in, all of us locked into the music together. For a few seconds it’s as though we’re all connected, all one, capable of anything. This is what I live for, these moments of pure creative fire. Excitement pours through me, endorphins lighting up my nerve endings. This is better than sex.

My body itself seems to think it is sex. We come to the end of the jam, and I’m breathing hard, sweating. I’m grateful (as usual) that I strap my bass low enough to cover my crotch. I’m a private guy, for good reason. This band would eat me alive if they ever realized that playing this aggressive music makes me hard every time. It’s not as if I’m turned on in the normal sense; I’m not going to suddenly whip it out and hump my buddies. It just happens, there’s nothing I can do about it. I hunch my shoulders a little, to put a bit more space between my instrument and my strained zipper. Accidentally rubbing those metal teeth against my junk would not help to keep my secret. James claps a hand on my shoulder. He’s grinning down at me, more or less looking straight down my body. Can he tell?

“Man, that was awesome! When did Lars teach you that riff?” Teach me that riff?! I’m instantly deflated. All the energy in the room dissipates into a cloud of rage. My rage. My feelings, for a change. Even with the Undertow right there, my anger takes over. I jerk my bass strap over my head, shove the instrument into the rack by the glass wall of the recording booth, and storm out. 

Outside, I pace back and forth, hauling angrily on a joint and pounding a warm beer I had in the back of my truck. I don’t register anything in my vision, I’m so angry. Two fucking years in this dictatorship of a band, two years of taking their shit, and this is what I get? “When did Lars teach you that?” I’m not a goddamn amateur. I’m the smartest guy in this fucking band! I don’t need a Danish midget to write my riffs for me!

I chug the last of the beer, throwing the bottle at the wall as hard as I can. It smashes into a million pieces, raining shards into my hair. Fuck! 

I walk away from the building, just needing to put some distance between me and the Undertow. The wind whips at my hair, pushing it into my eyes. I snap an elastic off my wrist and tie it back, leaving the shaved sides of my head at the mercy of the fall air. The moisture left behind by my sweat in the studio makes me clammy, further adding to my bad mood. Back to the studio. I’m just gonna grab my keys and go. 

Slamming the door open, I go straight for my keys and backpack. Later on, I’ll want my sketchbook and my journal to vent. Right now, I just want to get to get the hell away from James and his damn condescension. Either that, or pound his face in. Having him at my mercy would feel fabulous. I have a vision of James bruised and bleeding at my feet. A furious smirk spreads across my face.

Lars comes into the room as I shoulder my bag. He takes one look at me, shrugs his shoulders and waves a haphazard salute with the drumstick in his hand. “That was killer, dude. Probably the coolest thing you’ve come up with. We’ll polish it up tomorrow.” He disappears as quickly as he came. I can still hear him as I’m half way out the door. “Now you’ve done it, James. He’s out there with the Dave Mustaine homicidal grin all over his mug! Why do you need to piss off all the red heads?” I can’t help but laugh through my anger as I leave.

It’s around ten that night when I finally calm down enough to replay the bass line from the afternoon. I tab it out in my notebooks, making improvements where I think it’s necessary, and structuring the song to accommodate Kirk’s style. I don’t bother with lyrics that wouldn’t ever be considered. Overall, I’m still really excited about it. I want to get some tracks recorded while it’s still fresh in my mind. Returning to the studio while James is still there is not something I want to do. He’ll probably be long gone by now- recording cuts into his drinking time too much. 

No lights greet me back at the plain looking industrial building that houses the studio. That’s promising. I’ve been recording with various friends and bands for years, so I don’t need an engineer to run the board. I can just do my own thing, take my time, make it the way I think it should be with no one to answer to. I slide my key into the lock and step into the darkened room. I pause at the door to the studio proper. I don’t know why, but I have the feeling I’m not alone. Peering through the open door, sure enough, I see James sitting in the studio. The lights are out but enough moonlight filters in the window that I can see he’s sprawled in a chair, legs splayed and arms akimbo. He’s not sleeping, but I’m suspicious that he’s hammered. He lurches forward in the chair, hits a button on the sound board, and falls back again. That song fills the room, the chugging riff taking me back to the glory of the afternoon. Back to before James took it away from me. James is sprawled in the chair again, tapping his foot to the rhythm, head bobbing. He looks rapturous. Banging his hand on the outside of his thigh in time for a few bars, he starts to arch his back against the chair a little. Now he’s not so much keeping time with his hand as stroking his leg to the music. My eyes widen- is James going to do what I think he’s…

Yes, he is. James “the Undertow” Hetfield is palming himself through his jeans, clearly getting off on a riff I wrote. Shock and a weird kind of excitement roil in my belly, settling as a white heat in my groin. He’s shaking his head to the beat, the light glinting off the length of his blond hair. My gaze locks onto the point where his jaw meets his neck. His throat is exposed and I’m overcome with a desire to bite him, to make him submit. Fortunately, I’m rooted to the spot, unable to breathe, let alone move. James’ long hands are working at his zipper, seconds later he’s free of the constraining denim. He lifts himself off the chair for a split second, enough to shimmy his jeans down the inch or so it takes for him to fully grasp his cock. He slides his hand up the length of it, rubbing the throbbing head with his thumb, and groans loudly on the down stroke. He’s mumbling something, and I can’t quite make it out. He groans again, fisting himself to my music, eyes closed in ecstasy. I slip through the door silently, standing in a pool of darkness. James runs his other hand up under his t-shirt, white flesh barely covering his ribs. He’s completely lost in himself, lost in the music. He lets go of his cock for a second, and uses both hands to slide his shirt over his head. He strokes his hands down his chest, one going right back to stroking his cock. James is growling now, or at least I think he is. I’ve never heard him make that noise before. It’s deep and throaty and …. it’s my name? 

What? It’s my name? My pounds in my chest as I hear it again, more clearly this time. James is definitely moaning my name. “Jaaaaaaaaasoooooon. Oh, god, Jason.” He’s tensing his back again, writhing against the chair, fucking his own hand. 

The guy who dismissed me like a little kid earlier today is fistfucking his cock to my bass line, moaning my name. The guy who barely even acknowledges my humanity, let alone my talent or my importance in the band. Something snapped inside me. I stepped out in front of James, unbuckling my jeans. 

“That’s right. I’m Jason. And you’re the guy who’s going to get down and suck my dick. Now.” 

James’ eyes flew open. He looked completely shocked and paralyzed. I sneered at him.

“James, you’re in a very compromising position here, with your cock in your hand, and my name on your lips. I’m in charge now. On your knees. Now.”

“But… but I…” he stuttered.

I grabbed him by the back of the head and yanked him out of the chair. He stumbled and fell. “There. Right where I want you. You’re gonna learn to respect me, James. Do what you’re told. Suck me.” 

James only hesitated for a second before practically ripping my jeans open. Seeing him like this, so into what I created, made me hard. He wrapped his big hand around the base of my cock to steady it, opened his lips and slid me inside his hot, wet mouth. I’d never felt anything like it, the combination of the sensation of his lips and tongue on my dick, and the power of having James motherfucking Hetfield on his knees before me was intoxicating. I grabbed the back of his head, ploughing my cock into his face roughly. James moaned way back in his throat and I felt my cockhead slip down there a little bit. James was deep throating me, and apparently loving every second of it. Damn. My fingers twisted into his long hair, I continued pounding into him a bit longer, my rage turning to lust with every movement he made. I was already past what I normally thought were my limits, the level of sensation I could take before I came whether I wanted to or not. The world contracted to nothing except my cock and James’ mouth. Total triumph coursed through me. I was finally dominating James for a change. The music charged on, the breakdown looming along with my orgasm. The pause came, and James stopped what he was doing. I yanked his head back so he was looking up into my eyes.

James looked up at me with naked desire. I raised an eyebrow inquiringly, pulling his hair a bit more just to make sure he knew we weren’t finished yet.

“Fuck me.” 

I laughed out loud. “What?” I was half certain he was going to bite my dick off when I told him to suck it, and now he wants me to fuck him? I was stunned.

“Fuck me… please,” he said in a quiet voice, barely audible over the music. My cock jerked at his pleading tone. Leading him by the arm, I bent him over the chair, one knee on the seat. A quick feel assured me that James left plenty of spit on my dick so I didn’t bother hunting for lube. Spreading his legs a little further apart with my knee, I rubbed the head of my cock against his entrance. James eagerly backed himself onto me, only pausing for a split second before grinding himself against my thighs. I grabbed his hips, pushing into him to the sound of our music and his moans. I reached under him to stroke his cock, leaning forward to bite his shoulder where it met his neck. He bucked under me, and I could hear him, his orgasm building in step with our song. “Jason, Jason, oh yes, Jason, oh, Jasooooooooooon!” he wailed, coming all over the chair.

Hearing my name on his lips like that was the final stroke my bruised ego needed. I came inside him with a vicious stroke, biting down on his neck til I tasted blood. I pulled out and used his shirt to wipe myself off. James was a gooey mess, sprawled in his own come on the chair, breathing hard with his eyes rolled back. I smirked, turned on my heel and walked out. 

The next morning, James had teeth marks on his neck and I had a song writing credit on the album.


End file.
